


Fighting the Storm

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's the one thing Dean will always fight for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighting the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> AU post-apocalypse scenario following the events of season 4. Written for the Hunter's Soul table for spn_25. The prompt is _fight_.

They get separated in the thick of the battle. One moment they're standing back to back, fighting together, Sam's grunts a comforting sound in Dean's ear amid the chaos around them; two demons lunge at Dean then, and he empties his last round of rock salt into the nearest one. Seconds seem to slow down and stretch as he reaches to unsheathe his sword, his left hand closing around the hilt, and the blade sings as he swings it, time rushing back into its normal flow. Cacophony swells in the air, and as Dean pulls the sword out of the demon he just killed he suddenly realizes he can't sense Sam behind him anymore. 

"Sam?" he calls, downing another demon, and another, wanting to look for his brother but unable to turn his head or orient himself even for an instant as the things keep on coming at him. "Sam!" he calls again, louder this time, and he tries not to panic when the only answer he gets is laughter.

"Lose something?" the demon closest to him taunts. 

Dean beheads the smirking son of a bitch before it can say another word, but the laughter around him doesn't stop, becomes nastier instead, and he can't help the cold shiver that runs up his spine, the fear that settles in his chest like a physical weight. It doesn't stop him, though; he keeps swinging his sword, its intrinsic power surging into him, his own rage feeding the sword, and for long minutes they're one and the same, a single entity wreaking havoc, cutting a swath among the legions of Hell. Dean knows the demons can't touch him, not unless he lets them, and he knows the same stands true for Sam. He has to trust that Sam is okay. 

His blood is loud in his ears, a dark rush that drowns out everything. Still, he can tell that the demons aren't laughing anymore; the renewed hatred on their faces is a thing of beauty, and Dean smiles, savage and dangerous, as he cuts them down, two or three at a time with each arcing blow he delivers. Being out of ammunition means using the butt of his sawed-off shotgun to hit and break bone, every crushing strike traveling up his arm with a satisfying shock. Spilled blood and guts turn the ground soggy and slippery under his feet, but he's so focused on the task at hand he never once loses his balance.

Something penetrates the red haze of battle around his brain then; a voice he knows better than his own heartbeat. 

"Dean!" 

"Sammy," Dean answers, voice raised in relief above all the other sounds around them. 

"Dean!" Sam calls again, and Dean can hear the frantic plea underneath his tone a moment before Sam says the words. "Close your eyes, Dean!"

_Close your eyes._

Dean doesn't hesitate. He knows what's coming. He closes his eyes just as he drives his sword clear through an advancing demon, slicing it in two. 

Heat blasts him from the side, and Dean sees white even with his eyelids squeezed shut. He shields his eyes with his arm, and when the shock wave reaches him half a second later, it forces him to his knees. He thrusts the sword down into the ground to steady himself; holds on to it and waits.

Silence fills the air, a complete absence of sound. He knows the field they've been fighting on is still bathed in white, can feel the incandescent glow of it on his face and hands. He hopes that Sam had time to warn the others too. Hopes there won't be too many friends to mourn by the end of the day. He's tired of losing people, and there seems to be so few of them left.

Sound returns gradually. Whimpers of pain, calls for help. Thunder rumbling in the distance. 

" _Dean_ ," he hears. Lets himself get pulled into Sam's embrace. 

"Sammy," he whispers, voice rasping against his throat. He releases his grip on the sword, lets his shotgun hang from the strap across his shoulder and wraps his arms around Sam. Holds on tight, squeezing as hard as Sam is, chest heaving against Dean's. 

He doesn't know how long they stay on their knees holding each other. Doesn't know how long he's been keeping his eyes closed. When he blinks them open, he sees blackened corpses everywhere. Nothing more than empty husks now, cracked open and vacated. Every single demon they'd been fighting against, destroyed. 

It frightens him, what Sam can do now. He's not afraid _of_ Sam, but _for_ him; he knows how much it costs his brother every time he uses his powers like this. Dean can't even begin to guess how Sam's done this, how he was able to turn back from the dark road he'd been on, how he managed to survive his withdrawal from the demon blood and then hone his mind and his will into this pure, destructive force. He doesn't question it, though; no one does, not even the angels. 

Not that many of them left, either. 

"C'mon," Dean says, pulling back and standing up, helping Sam to his feet. Sam retrieves Dean's sword and his own weapon from the ground next to them. When they finally look at each other, Dean sees how pale Sam is, the dark circles under his eyes standing out in the eerie greenish-gray light as storm clouds pile up above them. He's filthy with blood, and the blade at the tip of Sam's quarterstaff--cannibalized from Ruby's knife--is caked with it too, standing in startling contrast next to Dean's immaculate sword. 

Even like this, he's the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen.

"It's gonna start raining soon. We need to get everyone out of here," Sam tells him, handing the sword back to Dean and already starting to turn.

Dean doesn't let him. He sheathes his sword, reaches for Sam's arm and pulls him back to face him. Reads the question in Sam's eyes and answers it with a kiss. 

Sam makes a sound, half surprise and half want as he opens his mouth against Dean's, and Dean tightens his arms around him again and kisses him until they're both out of breath. There's the promise of more in the way their bodies press closer, and Dean fully intends to make good on that promise as soon as they're alone together. 

"C'mon then," Dean says as he pulls away, the dazed expression on Sam's face making him smile. Sam smiles back, his dimples showing; he looks as if he's about to say something, but he doesn't get the chance. 

Lightning splits the air, too close, and thunder follows right after. Dean curses, and he and Sam pick their way through the burnt shapes on the ground. He sees Jo ahead of them, helping a wounded hunter back to their underground bunker, hair spilling out of her ponytail as she carries the bulk of the man's weight, his arm wound around her slender shoulders. Most of their people seem to have reached safety already, but there are a few stragglers, and when the wind picks up and the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand up, he knows they won't make it. 

" _Fuck_ ," Sam says next to him. Dean tenses, preparing to make a run for it even though he knows it's useless. He clutches at Sam's shirt, tugs his brother along with him and sprints. 

"Run!" he shouts to the others. People come out of the bunker to try and help those who are still left outside reach safety faster. 

They're halfway to the hatch when the skies burst open with a deafening clap. Dean can smell the foul rain before it hits the ground, can hear the bubbling hiss of it farther down the field, steam rising up as the evil drops scald and scar the earth. 

He steels himself for the screams to start; waits to see if he and Sam really are protected from Lucifer's elemental powers as the angels say they are. 

Nothing happens. People are still running towards the bunker; no one is crying out in agony or collapsing to the ground. Dean can't feel the rain at all, even though he knows it's falling, pouring down in earnest. 

"What the-?" he breathes, dumfounded, as he slows to a halt. He looks at Sam, hand still fisted in his shirt. 

Sam shakes his head at him. "I've got no clue, man," he says with a nervous laugh. Dean starts dragging Sam in the direction of the hatch again, and Sam raises his face up to the sky. 

Dean does the same. And stops dead in his tracks at what he sees. 

It's raining, all right. Harder than he'd thought. Deadlier. But where they stand, the raindrops seem to stop midair. The phenomenon extends over the field where some of their people still are, over the open entrance to the bunker. And Dean doesn't understand. Not until he catches sight of her.

Anna. She's standing on a jutting outcrop of rock some distance behind them, her arms slightly outstretched and her eyes closed. Sam turns next to Dean and they both stare. 

Her hair's moving about her face in the whipping wind, long red tendrils that writhe and dance like flames against the overcast sky. Her pale skin seems to shine from within, but that light is waning even as they watch. 

She opens her eyes and stares back at them. " _Go_ ," she orders. Dean can't hear her voice over the rain and the wind, but he can read the word, and her intent, well enough. 

They're the last ones still outside. They run towards the bunker and jump in, and the sentry on duty seals the hatch closed. 

Sam leans against the nearest wall, panting, and Dean's instantly at his side. It's utter confusion inside, everyone talking at once, people hurrying every which way, helping the wounded along, moving the dead out of the way, but Dean has eyes for nothing but Sam. 

"You okay?" he asks, laying his hand on Sam's shoulder. Pressing his thumb against the pulse in Sam's neck.

"I'm fine," Sam answers, just like Dean had known he would. 

"Bullshit," Dean tells him. 

Sam huffs out an exasperated breath. "What do you want me to say, Dean? Yeah, maybe I'm not great right now, but I'll be fine. Nothing a meal and some sleep won't cure."

"Right." Dean snorts. "Like anything's ever that simple with us." Sam sighs and shrugs, but Dean's not having it. "You shouldn't have toasted the demons, Sam. We could've handled it. We were-"

"We were _losing_ , Dean. Too many of our people were _dying_ out there. You know I wouldn't have done it unless I had to." There's an edge to Sam's voice that Dean doesn't really want to examine right now. 

"C'mon, Sam, there's no such thing as 'had to'. You just can't quit trying to be a martyr, can you? When the fuck are you gonna learn that you can't save everyone?" Dean presses closer against Sam, one hand clutching Sam's shirt again, forcing Sam to face him as he pins him back against the wall. "When are you gonna learn that I can't do this without you."

Sam sags against Dean as the fight goes out of him. "I'm not trying to be a martyr, Dean," he says softly. "But what's the point of fighting if there's no one left to fight for?"

_I don't care_ , Dean wants to tell him. _Let the whole world die, I don't care as long as you're alive_. It's not strictly true--Dean _does_ care--but there _is_ too much truth in it for Dean to say it to Sam's face. Still, he wants to shake Sam, _make_ him understand. He wants to yell and rant at him, wants to kiss him bloody and fuck him raw until he fucking _gets_ it. Some part of him even wants to try and beat it into Sam, doesn't matter that they've both learned, the hard way, that trading punches isn't something that works for them. 

Jo's standing next to them before Dean can say anything. He sighs, relaxing his grip on Sam's shirt but not letting go. 

"We're evacuating," she tells them. "You two had better get your stuff."

Dean nods. He'd known this was coming. There was no way they could stay here, not after today. They'd thought they were safe here, hidden--there were protective wards and sigils everywhere, both visible and invisible--but Lucifer had sent a whole fucking army right to their doorstep. No subtlety at all to it, just plain gloating. 

"We know where yet?" Sam asks her.

She shrugs, not just with her shoulders but with her whole face too. "Montana is what they're saying."

"The Last Best Place, huh?" Sam murmurs, leaning his head back against the wall and smiling sadly. 

"You doin' okay?" Dean cuts in, eyeing Jo up and down for a second, looking for injuries. He knows things are grim, but he's not in the mood for an angst fest right now. 

"I'm good," she says, and Dean knows she's lying. Knows she must be bleeding somewhere under her jacket where they can't see. Now that he's listening for it, there's an edge of pain to her voice that she can't quite conceal. "Nothing that Cas can't take care of."

Dean can barely suppress a smile at the way she says Castiel's name. Not for the first time, he wonders if there's anything going on between them. Castiel wasn't quite the same anymore, especially since Claire and Amelia had died; he and Cas weren't exactly close these days, but from what Dean could tell, Castiel wasn't such an aloof bastard anymore, and he and Jo seemed to be getting awfully close. He wonders how much of Jimmy Castiel is letting come through these days. Wonders if there's any real difference between the two anymore. 

"Thanks, Jo," Sam tells her, squeezing her arm with a gentleness that makes Dean ache for some reason. 

She smiles at them, a genuine smile. "See you on the other side."

Dean watches her disappear down one of the corridors. "C'mon, Sammy," he says, tugging his brother away from the wall. "Let's pack and find us a couple of seats on the Angel Express."


End file.
